Author: Rob Says

A man who loves and likes women.

Kiss A Little Longer..Stay Close A Little Longer..Hold Tight A Little Longer..

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“I don’t know how you guys get time to write. Takes me forever to write shit down.” – A Friend of mine talking to me on Twitter.

The thing is, once writing makes you her bitch, it’ll flow. You won’t be able to type fast enough to keep up with it. So you’ll get a voice recorder app, or an actual voice recorder to snag those ideas out of the ether. You’ll start carrying a notebook around with you and a couple of pens or pencils. Write that shit down man. If you really become hardcore about it, you’ll get a program or an app or something that will teach you how to type if you don’t know how. Or it’ll help you get really fast if you do. Gotta keep up with that shit in your head. You think faster than you type, always have and always will, but you’ll try and keep up, and you’ll fail. But you’ll keep at it anyway. Because that mistress, she’s such a ball-busting, slave driver of a bitch, she’ll keep cracking that whip. And the more she does, the more you will love her. Your thoughts get sharper, cleaner, more refined. The mental orgasms you have, and you’ll have them, when you complete a piece. That’s the shit baby. That’s the money shot.

And the tension that you create inside yourself when you’ve started something, but you haven’t worked on it, or finished it? That is a sweet suffering, a beautiful agony of your own creation. Sometimes I sit on something just to stew in it and suffer, but to get back to it is like drinking a glass of iced water when you’ve been wandering the desert for weeks on end. It’s like getting a woman aroused and seeing her panties getting wet.

You don’t get the time to write. You make the time to write. Because eventually you have to. It becomes a release. A catharsis. It is its own orgasm.

Reading is and has always been enjoyable to me. Now though, now there’s another element to it. I not only read to be entertained and to educate myself, but I read to sample nuances of other writers. It’s like wine tasting. You take a sip, swish it around in your mouth, and usually you’re supposed to spit it back out. Reading has become like that for me these days. I sample a writer, especially for their humor and I take it in and savor it. Only instead of spitting it back out, I swallow it down. Just like how I do wine tasting now that I think about it. I didn’t realize that you weren’t supposed to drink all the wine that you tasted, to me, wine tasting is a fun way to get really fucked up if that is your goal. Reading and then writing is kind of like that too, minus the hangover.

Lot of guys in the Twitterverse yammering on about procreation so that you have your “legacy.” Apparently in their world, that’s their mission. Wife a woman up, bang out a bunch of kids, save western civ, and boom! There’s your legacy.

Here’s a question for you though, some food for thought if you will:

What if your kids turn out to be pieces of shit? What if they don’t like you and want nothing to do with you in your old age? They don’t owe you an obligation just because you brought them into the world. What if in your declining years, your kids shuttle you off to a rest home, never to be seen again until your funeral? And then it’s off to the attorneys to fight over the pickings left behind, like vultures circling carrion. Didn’t think that could be your legacy did you?

You spent your life creating your legacy only to find out that your legacy doesn’t give a fuck about you. And two generations later, you’re forgotten anyways. Your great grandchildren, if there are any, barely remember you. And your great great grandchildren? You’ll be lucky that they even knew you, let alone of you. I’m not trying to be cynical here, it’s just the truth. It’s just reality.

If your mission is to leave a legacy behind, what better way than to write it down. Hell, half of the Bible is nothing but a recording of births. Why not do the same thing? You want to leave a legacy behind for future generations to enjoy, why not write a book or a blog? Why not put your thoughts down, even if you think they are boring and insignificant. Those thoughts and feelings might be insignificant to you, but what about to whoever ends up reading them? What is insignificant to you is profound to another. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure and all of that.

This is my legacy. This is what I leave behind. Sometimes boring, run of the mill, and yes even insignificant. At least for me, it’s my way of saying, “I am. I’m here. I was here.” I still get traction on posts that I wrote over a year ago when I decided to get serious about this. God knows why, but they do. I still get comments and e-mails about them, thanking me for writing them. They helped somebody out there, out. Good enough for me.

And if I ever have kids, this will be something that I’ll leave behind for them to remember me by. Warts and all. Maybe I’ll compile these posts into a book and put it on my shelf with the others that I hold near and dear. It could make an interesting conversation piece at least. “You wrote a book?” “Why yes, yes I did.”

If I end up with kids, and those kids have kids, and I give them this blog, or some form of book from it, and those kids read it, at the minimum they’ll probably say, “Grandpa was a weird fucker.” Yes, my 5 year old grandkids and great grandkids will swear.

And if I don’t have kids, so the whole grand and great grandkid thing will be a moot point? Somebody somewhere will find this and read it, eventually. And they will say the same thing, because they swear too.

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Plop, Plop, Fizz, Fizz…

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Don’t feed them to seagulls.

Dreams of a future with no past. Dreams of a past with no future. Dreams of a present that is one long orgasm. I don’t want it to end. That’s what happens when you fall asleep watching a movie and the TV gets left on. Don’t try this at home kids.

The thing is, there is nothing that can’t be done given enough time, dedication, and persistence. Read that again. And then read it again. I’ll wait.

Your life is ending, one hour, one minute, one second at a time. But how can you do your mission unless you are eating healthy and lifting weights while beating off to some dead philosopher and getting right with God so that you can live forever?

My mission is to lie with her, tracing her spine with my fingernails all the way down to the small of her back to the curve of her ass and back up again to move her damp hair away and to lick the sweaty salt from the nape of her neck. I want to see the goosebumps rise on her flesh and feel her breath explode in my ear as she gasps. I want to feel her writhe and shudder and I want her to draw blood from my back with her nails. I want bitemarks on my shoulder. The deeper the better.

I don’t want to live forever, I just want to live. I don’t want to die in my sleep, I want to die right as I climax. I want to come and go. I want to climb into her skin, sink deep down within, and I want to devour her soul.

I want to clamp down with my teeth on the back of her neck and carry her around like a cat does with its kittens. I want to shake her like a dog worrying a bone. And then I want her to put her head on my chest, curl her body into me, and have her tell me that I’m home.

I want to go out drinking with you, but it’ll have to be beer. When you drink whiskey and get that whiskey breath going on, I have flashbacks to when I was a kid and Dad would come home drunk from some party and he would try to be cute and funny and say things like, “You know what you need? You need an ass kicking. What you need is a knuckle sandwich.” To a 5 year old kid, that’s God thundering down from the mountains. That’s your imminent execution. And for what? What did I do? I was just sitting on the floor playing a video game. And that won’t do. Whatever arousal I had for you will be gone and that’s not my mission. That’s my anti-mission. I want to smell beer on your breath because your beer breath smells sort of like bread being baked and that’s always a good smell. Plus when you drink beer, you are warm, fuzzy, and horny and I like that. When you drink whiskey, it’s a crap shoot. I don’t know who or what is going to show up. It’s the mystery meat at the buffet, a coin toss. Do I get happy drunk? Crazy spazz? Angry woman? Mostly I see weepy sad sack who needs someone to hold her hair back while she pukes in the toilet, praying to the porcelain god. And I’m too old for that shit. So let’s just stick to beer shall we?

My mission is to kiss you deeply and taste what you ate. This time it’s coffee. Better than cigarettes. Or Doritos.

My mission will be to convert you to medium-rare. All women start out with either well done or medium-well. Must be in the handbook or something. I’ve never understood your fascination with eating shoe leather. Sometimes I succeed and you become a true fan, a real connoisseur of steak. Your future boyfriend will thank me for that one. Sometimes it’s a lost cause. The key is to know when to hold ’em and know when to fold ’em. Know when to walk away, and know when to run. You never count your money, when you’re sitting at the table. There’ll be time enough for counting, when the dealings done. Don’t mind me, I’m just channeling my inner Kenny Rogers.

I bitch about my creativity. How I don’t know what to say and if I’ll have anything else left after I’ve said the last thing, and yet, here we are. The well runs deeper than I thought. It’s funny how it works for me though. I’ll write several things, all at once, back to back, as if in a fever. I can’t type fast enough to get it out. And then days go by. Sometimes weeks and it’s….Nothing. It’s like I blew my load and then I’m in my refractory period. Waiting to charge up so I can blow another load.

One thing I’ve realized though is this:

The more I write, the more I have to write. It’s almost a compulsion. If I don’t write I’ll explode. Mental blueballs.

There’s a demon inside, blood-let it out, blood-let it out. That’s writing, and that’s easy.

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. – Ernest Hemingway.

Kids at home, let this be a warning. Don’t start writing. Ever. You’ll give up things like video games, shooting hoops, drinking, drugs, and whoring. Writing will become your mistress, sooner or later if you keep fucking around with her. It’ll start all innocent where you can write a couple of sentences or maybe a paragraph or two and put it down for months on end, not even thinking about it. But then one day, she has you. She has you in her iron grip and she won’t let go, and you have to write goddamnit. And you have to write now. Demon inside indeed. I wonder if there’s a 12 step program for writers. “Hi I’m Rob and I’m a writer.” “Hi Rob.” “It’s been 4 hours since I last wrote and I’m going out of my mind.”

I’ve heard people compare things like chocolate to sex and saying that chocolate, or coffee or whatever, is better than sex. Bullshit. Nothing is better than sex. Not even writing. But writing is really fucking close.

I know what I want to do. I want to lick the salty sweat off of the back of your neck, have a simultaneous orgasm, and then sit and write about it with my laptop resting on your back and ass while your breasts are pressed against my body and you lie your head on my chest and run your fingers through my chest hair. That’s my mission.

But don’t giggle goddamnit. That makes the laptop jiggle and I can’t write then. And I can’t have that.

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Like A Good Neighbor..

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Mind your own business.

I did a Salt Lake Sit-Down with my friend, Brother, co-founder, and co-host of Masculine Geek, Vince LaRosa on Saturday. We talked about “wine, women, and song.” It was a really good episode if I do say so myself. You should check it out.

If you follow me at all on Youtube, you’ll know that I’ve been on a few different shows by different people. One of the most recent one’s is Jack Napier’s Red Pill Readings. We discussed The Manipulated Man by Esther Villar. I highly recommend this book if you haven’t already read it. It’s eye opening in many ways, particularly because it was written many years ago. 1971 in fact. At least according to the original copyright.

I first read this book over a year ago, and every time I reread it, I get more from it. I reread it before talking with Jack in order to refresh my memory and to pull certain details from it. I really like and enjoy literature that makes me think and this particular book does just that.

Now I’m not going to go into a book review here, I just needed to mention all of this to set the background or the context.

There’s a lot of talk out there on the interwebs about having “your mission.” What mission that is, is up to you. But apparently it can’t be about women. Women are a compliment, not the mission itself. I get that. But why exactly can’t women be your mission? What if I want to spend my days intertwined in their flesh? What if I want to wrap my arms around them and them me? I’m not talking about pedestalizing them here. I’m not talking about having them so much a part of my life that I don’t know where I begin and they end.

I understand their nature enough. I know they are “the most responsible teenager in the room.” I understand hypergamy. I also know it’s not a straightjacket. I know they aren’t all “sugar and spice and everything nice.” I get that they can branch swing. I also know that more often than not, they can be a huge pain in the ass.

Your Mission has become the new mantra. Well if you decide to not deal with women at all, or only in limited, superficial degrees, what’s the point in having a mission?

What’s the point in getting “jacked” and eating healthy and living a long life if you aren’t going to share it with someone? Or many someones?

What’s the point in “amassing incredible wealth” if all you are going to do is go be a hermit somewhere?

What’s the point in doing anything?

I enjoy the company of Men to talk about life, philosophy, politics, guns, exercise, and pretty much anything else under the sun, but I don’t want to fuck them. And getting a massage from a dude would just be…Weird.

I spent Friday evening in the company of a beautiful young lady. She’s vivacious, full of laughter, and she’s full of energy and life. She’s got a ton of issues that aren’t my problem and I have no desire whatsoever to fix. Not my circus, not my monkeys. But I felt energized and renewed after she left. I’ve missed that. I didn’t know it until it happened, but goddamn I’ve missed that. I missed being touched.

We are social creatures. We need to touch and be touched. I remember seeing something somewhere about a study or something that mentioned babies and the effects of being touched or not. I seem to recall that the lack of touch created all sorts of health issues for babies that didn’t get touched on a regular basis.Possible physical and definitely mental and emotional issues.

I think that doesn’t just apply to babies. I think that applies to everyone throughout our entire lives. A dead philospher, a religious text, and picking up iron aren’t going to replace a touch. Never have, never will. Neither will booze or other drugs. Want a real dopamine hit? Caress a woman’s shoulder. Run your fingers down her arm to that soft spot on her elbow. She’ll feel it and so will you. Touch her face. Close her eyes with your fingertips. Place your hand on her stomach. Let her touch yours.

Your mission can’t replicate that. Unless maybe your mission is that.

There’s more to life than dead philosophers and mental masturbation. There’s more to life than reading about the exploits and heroics of dead presidents. There’s more to life than just making money. There’s more to life than travelling the world and seeing the sights, but you don’t have someone to share that experience with. I’ve always felt that if I’m going to travel anywhere, it’s more important to me who I travel with than the destination. I may remember a certain piece of architecture, or a natural landmark, but it won’t move me like sharing that architecture or landmark with someone else will. All of my best memories of vacations and trips involved the parties I was with, not the locations that I visited. One of my favorite memories was at the Great Salt Lake, and that location is literally 5 minutes away from my house. Hint, it wasn’t the lake itself. It was who I was with.

Sometimes all that is really needed is just to touch and be touched. Sometimes all it takes to break through that haze of confusion, anger, and sadness is a finger tracing your jawline. Or a soft feminine hand gripping your forearm.

“Dood! You lost your framez/bluepill/beta/orbiter looser juicesqueeze lolololol!!!!!!!!1111”

Sssshh. Sit down. The Men are talking.

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